An old composition. I understand people don't talk death in their 20's. Mind you I too have no premotion regarding mine. I often wonder if someone -- with flirtatious eyes -- will ever pass my resting place with a flower in hand. I'll love those impassioned moments.
One often wonders how short our life-spans are! We are born once. We die once. We truly love once. Anything else is only habit, settlement, companionship.
In reality we never die. We continue to live in memories. In old hopes. Alongside ancient thoughts. In hearts. In friends who care. In the laughter of children. Old walls. Like cute rodents scurrying across a roof.
I think some people may miss me when I am no more. If you miss me, I'll sure compliment it with a smile from the sky. I wrote this poem -- many aeons back-- but I mean it.
When I am dead, my dearest
dig no crosses for me
When the gusts go strong, my dearest
breathe no gasps for me
As my echoes wear off
say no praises for me
When I am visible no more
drop no tears for me
When the lights go out, my dearest
lit no candles for me
As my thoughts fade away
hold no hands for me
When the spring breaks again, my dearest
Watch me in the cowslips
by my grave
I'll be there for you